by Denise Wells
He laughs lightly “You got me there, Icy. But also because anything you put in your mouth, lends itself to that luscious ass.”
I want to take offense at that, but it’s hard when he’s looking at me with desire in his eyes.
Chapter 13
Chance
I’ve confused myself a bit tonight with some of the things I’ve said and done. Especially the comment about having babies with her. That was not something I’d expected to say. But oddly, once it came out of my mouth, it didn’t seem so bad.
Maybe I would like seeing Remi with my baby inside of her.
Except this is just for a month. And only so that I can help send Mom and Dad on their cruise. I need to get all of those other ideas out of my head immediately. ‘Cause that long-term relationship shit just won’t fly. Been there, done that. Not going to do it again.
I was almost married once, and it wrecked me. The story that I tell people was that she got too caught up in the planning part of the wedding, that she lost sight of the marriage part and of the two of us together. But that’s only part of the reason why I called it off. The only people who know the truth outside of me, are my parents and my sisters.
And of course, my ex, Helen.
I tell that story because in some ways she did lose sight of the marriage part, but I’m also not sure she ever had it. At first, it was just her acting out in odd ways and getting upset over things that shouldn’t matter. Like whether or not the napkins at the reception should be cloth or paper. Or what size the font in the program should be. I explained it away as her being a little Bridezilla-esque. But then came the day that she threw a plate at the baker during our cake tasting because the chocolate wasn’t chocolate enough. The baker needed twelve stitches in her forehead as a result.
When I tried to talk to Helen about it, she turned it back on me and said that I didn’t care because I wasn’t upset enough. It escalated from there. She went from calm to chaotic in a matter of seconds over tiny things. A car did a rolling stop at a corner near our house before turning. Helen threw a rock at the rear window and broke it, almost hitting a child in the back seat. The cable repairman was thirty minutes late to fix our cable, when he arrived, she refused to let him in. Then she called his supervisor and reported the repairman as inexcusably rude and sexually inappropriate; that she didn’t feel safe in his presence.
I tried to get her medical help, but she refused to see anyone. I had her locked away for a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold, but they claimed to not find anything wrong with her. Helen’s parents turned a blind eye to the problem, and wouldn’t help me. It wasn’t until I came home one night, after a two-day sting operation, and saw that she had locked Hudson in a small closet, that I finally left. He’d been locked in there so long he had not only defecated on himself multiple times but was severely dehydrated and stressed. You don’t just do that kind of shit. It’s not normal.
I called off the wedding and moved out, leaving her the house. I wanted to help her, but not to my detriment, or at the risk of my dog’s safety. That was when she started breaking into my new place. At first, she would just move things around. Not enough for me to really notice, just enough to make me feel forgetful. Then she started leaving some of her things at my house: lipstick, a scarf, perfume, shampoo, underwear; which is how I knew it was her.
I didn’t get a restraining order because I didn’t want to be that guy. The cop who can’t handle his own shit. So I tried to control it. But I couldn’t. Each time she went on the attack, it was worse than before. She cut holes in my clothes, slashed the tires on my motorcycle, pulled the stuffing out of my couch, and unplugged my refrigerator. All of that I let go and tried to ignore. But when she tried to poison both me and Hudson, I finally pressed charges and got a restraining order.
I took Hudson to my parents’ house and transferred to the undercover division shortly after, then spent the next two years buried in work and another identity. And now, I’m here.
Our food arrives, which breaks me out of my hellish memories. I have to admit my steak looks really good. Before I even have a chance to pick up my fork, Remi has started eating. I like it when she eats, so I tell her so. She says something again about putting things in her mouth, which makes me think about my dick and those red lips.
I feel myself harden.
I want to kiss her. I want to see if I can smudge that lipstick all over her face. I want to pull that flower out of her hair and mess it the fuck up. I want to take her to the bathroom, lock us in a stall, and—
“How’s your steak?” she asks.
“Good,” I say, my voice gruff.
“You’ve barely touched it,” she says, sounding suspicious.
“I’m savoring,” I say.
“Let me have a bite.” She pulls my plate toward her and cuts a piece off before I can blink.
She closes her eyes and moans. “Oh my God, that is so good. I’ve not had meat in so long.”
“I can fix that for you, Ice Q,” I leer.
She laughs. I expect some kind of caustic remark or shut down. But she just laughs. So I do too.
“How is everything?” Alex asks us from across the table.
“Great,” I say. “You?”
“Really good,” Harley says. She nudges Alex with her elbow. He nudges her back. They obviously already got some kind of secret language between the two of them. I’m kind of amazed at how quickly they’ve connected. No games, no pretense.
The band is on a break, and there’s regular music playing. This song I recognize. “Maybe, I’m Amazed.”
“Oh, I love this song,” Harley says.
“It’s anti-American not to love Paul McCartney,” I say.
“Wasn’t he with the Beatles?” Harley asks.
I have to laugh. I was never a Beatles fan, but I love Paul McCartney and the Wings. And to me, they far eclipsed anything the Beatles ever did.
“Yes,” I say. “But don’t let that turn you off his music.”
“What’s wrong with the Beatles?” Remi asks.
“Everything,” I say.
“What if I tell you they’re my favorite?”
“Then we are going to have a problem, darlin’,” I say.
“They’re not,” she says. “I just wanted to see what you would say.”
“What music do you like?” I ask. “Besides the song ‘Misty Blue?’”
“You remembered,” she says.
“It was barely twenty minutes ago, sweetheart,” I say.
“I know, but it was a little thing, easily forgotten.” She looks touched that I remembered. Sometimes it’s so easy with women I have to wonder what kind of idiots they had in their past who didn’t remember what they liked or tended to their needs. Those guys just pave the way for the rest of us. Then I remember Alex was the last guy she dated and I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Did I say something to amuse you?” Her tone quickly going back to frosty.
I lean over and whisper into her ear, “It’s important for a man to listen to his woman.” She stiffens when I say ‘his woman,’ but I continue anyway. “And to remember what she says. So, I wondered what kind of idiots you dated before who didn’t remember those things. And then I remembered one is sitting across the table from us.” I let my lips brush against her ear lightly as I talk, feeling gratified when she shivers.
“Oh.”
I give my attention back to my steak and finish it quickly, feeling borderline uncomfortable after.
Remi finishes her scallops and dabs at her mouth primly. “I’m going to use the restroom if you don’t mind.” I stand and pull her chair out for her, clearly surprising her, if the wide-eyed look she gives me is any indication.
“I’ll go with you,” Harley says. Alex attempts to stand and do the same, but she’s too fast for him and ends up just bumping into his thighs with the back of her chair.
I wait until they are out
of earshot before I start talking. “Date two is on the books, brother. You scared?”
“Nope,” he says. But the look on his face doesn’t match the confidence in his voice.
“Do you know what I’m going to use the money for?” I ask.
“What?”
“I’m going to hire one of those billboard trucks that drive around town and it’s going to say Alex Fields is a chump.”
He laughs. “Fuck off, dude.”
“So, hey, in all seriousness, it seems like it’s going good with Harley. You good?” I ask him.
“Dude, she’s amazing. She plays X-Box Live, she’s hot, she can talk about anything.”
Except for the brilliance that is Paul McCartney and the Wings.
“Have you Lady and the Tramp’d her yet?” I smirk.
“Nah that was a joke.”
“You should ask her to dance, man. Get her out on the floor, pull her up close,” I say.
“I can’t dance,” he says.
“What, like you’re bad at it?” I ask.
“Probably. I’ve never done it,” he says.
“How is that possible?” I ask. “What about high school dances and shit?”
“Didn’t go,” he says.
“Weddings? Bar Mitzvahs?”
He shrugs.
I think for a minute. Who doesn’t go to high school dances? There’s no easier way to score, as a teenage guy, than at the prom or homecoming dance.
“Okay, you air drum, right?” I ask.
“You mean like?” he pantomimes drumming on the table.
“Exactly. That’s beat, right?”
“Okay.”
“I have three sisters, man, I was forced to dance with them all the fucking time. If I can do it, anyone can. Okay, so, this is how they got me to understand beat and timing. Take this song, right?”
The song is “I Never Loved a Man” by Aretha Franklin. I’m impressed that I know that. Or else I should hand in my man-card. I’m not sure.
Alex nods in response to my question.
“Okay, so it’s easy to pick out the drums. But alongside the drums is the underlying beat. The part that makes you want to move your head back and forth or tap your toes, right?” I start swaying back and forth and encourage him to do the same. Then I start tapping my fingers on the table. He follows suit.
“You got it, man,” I say.
“How does this teach me to dance?” he asks.
“Well, that sway, that’s what you’re going to do with her, only slower.”
He slows a bit.
“Slower,” I say.
He slows more. But it’s still not enough.
“Watch me,” I say, and I slow my back and forth way down. “You don’t want to be swinging her around. You just want to do a gentle move. Like slow fucking.”
We are still weaving side to side when the song changes. “Tender Years” by Marc Cohn.
But it continues to work. My hand is undulating in the air, kind of conducting the beat for us.
Which is when the girls return.
“If you boys care to do a partner swap, that’s fine by me,” Remi says with a smirk. Alex immediately stops, but I continue moving. Not knowing how else to get out of this, I stand, grab Remi’s hand and pull her toward me, forcing her to step in time.
“We can’t help it, when the music moves us, we must obey, right Alex?” I ask. I twirl Remi a bit, narrowly missing a waiter who looks at us with a scowl on his face.
“Okay, okay,” she says. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
I pull her chair out for her, get her situated, and then seat myself.
“I don’t know what his problem was,” I say. “It is a dinner AND dancing club.”
“On the dance floor,” Remi says, laughing.
“Well,” I say.
“My dinner was so good,” Harley says. “But I’m so full now I can hardly move.”
“Maybe dancing would help,” I say, looking pointedly at Alex.
“This is a good song,” Remi says.
“Van Morrison?” I ask.
She nods. “Someone Like You.”
“Shall we?” I ask. She nods again, and we move toward the floor. I swing her out gently then pull her into my arms. My moves have advanced considerably since high school. Plus, I enjoy dancing, it’s like an acceptable form of public fucking.
Chapter 14
Remi
God, this song. It kills me every time I hear it. It was Kat and Brad’s wedding song the first time around. I don’t know if they will use it again. But it’s also the song in the movie Someone Like You with Ashley Judd and Hugh Jackman. I freaking love that movie. It was based on a book Animal Husbandry by Laura Zigman, and I absolutely love that book. I’ll be honest though, I think I’d love pretty much anything Hugh Jackman was in.
“I like the way you move,” Chance says softly.
“It’s because of how my partner leads.”
“Well, would you look at us,” Chance says. “Being all civil and complimentary and stuff. You better watch out, beautiful, or I’m going to think you like me.”
“Everyone is capable of a momentary lapse of reasoning,” I say looking up at him with a smile. He falters in his dance step, but recovers nicely, and holds my gaze until I look away. The moment being a little too intense for my comfort level.
I look over his shoulder and see that Alex and Harley have joined us on the dance floor. I chuckle lightly, grateful for something else to focus on other than Chance.
“What?” His breath tickles my ear.
“Alex, he does the clutch and sway,” I whisper back.
Chance turns us slowly in the dance so he can see where Alex and Harley are.
“He doesn’t know how to dance,” Chance says softly. “That’s what we were doing at the table. Swaying to the music so he could get the hang of it before asking Harley to dance.”
“Really?” I lean back and look at him, not quite believing that he would be so nice.
“Surprised?” he looks me in the eye. “See, I’m not a total asshole.”
I’ll give him that. He’s not a total asshole.
“This is nice,” I say, a sigh escaping from my chest.
“Dancing?” he asks.
“Dinner, dancing, the whole thing. I haven’t done something like this in a long time. And, I’m enjoying myself. Even though I’m with you.”
“That was almost a compliment, Ice Q. Watch out,” he says.
“We’ve Got Tonight” by Bob Seger plays next.
Jesus, I feel like I’m dancing to Kat’s ‘sudden death’ playlist. The music she plays whenever she wants to feel sorry for herself and sink into a total depression about life and love.
When is the band coming back?
Chance is singing softly.
“You know this song?” I ask.
“It’s Bob Seger, of course I know this song.”
Surprisingly, he has a good voice. A voice that sends a tingle down my spine and warms up my insides.
“Why ‘of course’?” I ask.
“Kat didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“I used to sing in a Bob Seger cover band. We called ourselves the ‘Night Moves’.”
“Shut up,” I say, my eyes wide.
“No joke.”
“I want to see you sing.” The words come out before I can stop myself.
“I said I used to sing in a cover band.”
“So, you’ve lost your voice? You can’t ever sing again? The band broke up and you aren’t friends anymore?” I ask.
“The band still plays,” he says. “And we’re still friends.” He pauses for a moment, then continues. “I’ll tell you what, go on a second date with me, I’ll take you to see the band sometime, and maybe I’ll sing a song for you.”
“Really?” I immediately cringe inside because I sound like a squeaky girl when I say it. But I’m kind of excited to hear him sing. “What song will y
ou sing?”
“I said maybe. You’re just going to have to be surprised,” he says.
And I realize, I’m really looking forward to a second date with Chance. Probably too much.
Louboutins. Louboutins. Louboutins.
Stay focused, Rem. It’s all about the shoes.
The band returns. Finally. I recognize the opening strands of the song immediately.
“I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You.”
Kat is a huge Tom Waits fan and she loves this song. Hearing it sung by a woman almost puts an even more desperate edge to the piece. I feel like it could be the one-song soundtrack to my life. As far as I’m concerned, falling in love is the equivalent to emotional quicksand. You get sucked in slowly until the day you realize you’ve suffocated and you’re dead.
“I think I’d like to sit down,” I tell Chance, trying to pull away.
“Finish the song,” he says.
“My feet hurt,” I lie.
He grabs me tighter around the waist and hoists me slightly, so my feet hardly touch the floor. But now my core is aligned with his. I can feel he’s slightly hard. He feels good.
“Am I feeling the real reason why you don’t want to go sit down, Mr. Bauer?” I ask coyly.
“In that dress? You’ve had me half hard all night, beautiful,” he says, his voice slightly husky.
“Only half?” I ask. “I must be doing something wrong.” But I’m a little surprised by how deep my voice is when I say it.
“Tell me something really unsexy so I can get rid of this hard-on and walk back to the table without being embarrassed.”
“Baseball.”
“I like baseball.”
“I thought all men recited baseball stats to get rid of a hard-on.”
“Not all,” he says.
“What about grandma?”
“Mine or yours?” he asks. “Because if it’s yours, and she looks anything like you, it’s not going to work.”
“Yours.”
He closes his eyes for a minute, and I feel his dick deflate.
“That’s kind of cool,” I say.
“There is nothing cool about a limp dick, Icy.”
